We Don't Fry Corn in Minnesota!
by medicgirl
Summary: Between catastrophes, how does the team cope? Do they drink too much or indulge in other self-destructive habits? I doubt it. They have each other, and no matter how strange it may seem, family is family. Also, I have never been to Minnesota, but anywhere outside the south, people act like I'm nuts when I mention this!


As Usual, I don't own them...

Author's Note: This story is a bit odd, but I am a paramedic who sometimes uses our friends to deal with my own issues. Probably not psychologically healthy, but I don't get paid enough to afford a shrink... Besides, I kinda think they might deal with things that are hard to cope with similarly to how I do. So not sure how to classify this... Is it h/c? No, not really... Family? Definitely... Anyway, I'll shut up. You decide!

Mac's head was pounding as he laid it back against the back of his couch. Fresh from a shower that he needed badly, his still-damp blond hair sticking up in all directions and plastered to his forehead. His whole body ached and the huge bruise that covered the left side of his face in a distinct straight line, courtesy of a guy the size of a small mountain with a crowbar, somehow managed to both throb and burn like it was on fire at the same time. Even by their somewhat skewed standards, this had been a week from hell. The heating pad slowly loosened the abused muscles in his shoulders, and he smiled as he watched his friends -his family- milling about.

None of them had been spared what he had been through, and it showed. The cast on Bozer's left hand. The bruises showing out the neck of Riley's sparkly black t-shirt. The familiar brace on Jack's knee that he only had to wear rarely and the six stitches just under his right eye. But to watch them, tonight, you would never know.

"Look, Jack, all respect to Mama Dalton and all, but man, that's just wrong! You people in the south just like to push things, but you gotta draw the line somewhere! I mean, fried bananas, fried twinkies, all that is bad enough. But sane, rational people do not just fry corn!"

Jack shook his head. "I can't believe you've never had skillet corn… But I told you, you will love it. And since you can't cook with your fancy new oven mitt there, you're at my mercy tonight!"

Riley couldn't hold back the snort of laughter, at the statement, the argument in general, and mostly the dismayed look on Bozer's face. "It's actually pretty good, Boze."

"You see, you were exposed to this madness at a young age, you were indoctrinated to his kind of insanity! So, yeah, I'm holding my ground on this one." He shook his head. "No way this is right!"

"You said you would try it," Jack said calmly, sitting at the table cutting fresh corn of the stack of cobs beside him.

"I did not!"

Riley paused on her laptop and put her hand up. "Witness number one."

Mac grinned and put his own hand up. "Witness number two."

"Traitors!" Bozer muttered, crossing his arms carefully. "You can't count that. I was under duress! I didn't think I was going to live to actually have to, or that you were going to live to actually cook it! I mean, listen, it's like a confession under duress, it ain't allowed in court!"

Jack shook his head, laughing. "I just can't believe that you never had skillet corn! I mean, I understand in Mac's case, but you had the whole normal-family apple-pie family-dinner-on-Sunday life growing up. How did you avoid this delicacy?"

"Um, Jack," Mac said with a grin. "You do remember we grew up in Minnesota, right? If we had fresh corn, it generally had a Publix sticker on it!"

Jack nodded. "Yeah, I remember. Sad, too. But, Mac, you've eaten my Mama's skillet corn, and you loved it. As I recall, you got another bowl of it at three in the morning!"

Not giving his friend and inch, he replied, "To be fair, that was immediately after Dubai and we literally had not eaten in 76 hours!" Jack gave him a glare and he couldn't help laughing. "And I don't think anyone north of the Mason-Dixon line grew up eating that!"

Jack grumbled about ungrateful kids as he carried the pan to the stove, trying with everything in him to walk normal and hide the limp from his bad knee. Luckily, all the ingredients were all within a few steps of each other. Had they not been, Mac would have offered to help, but as they were close enough to not cause Jack any extra pain, it was more fun to help Bozer harass him. He began to mix the other ingredients. "Where's the flour? Do you guys not have flour?"

"Bottom cabinet on the right," Mac told him.

Jack opened the cabinet expecting a bag or tub. Instead, he found five five-pound bags of flour. "Um, that's a lot of flour! You two thinking about starting a bakery or something?"

This time Bozer grinned. He could give some back now… "No, Jack, that is for your partner. He occasionally gets delusions of grandeur and thinks he can cook. So we have to have a lot of flour."

Jack looked at him funny. "Why?"

"I don't know," Bozer said innocently. "Mac, why does your lack of cooking ability mean we need a lot of flour?"

His face flushed. "Flour is the best thing to use to put out grease fires…" Bozer gave him an exaggerated grin, and Mac responded with the mature, adult response. He stuck his tongue out at him. Then Bozer realized what they had said.

"Wait a minute! Mac, are you even seeing this? He's putting flour in it! Flour! Is this gonna be some of those weird pancake things? Because those are gross! That's not what this is, is it?"

Simply watching his friends picking at each other felt good. There had been times in the last few days when he had not been completely sure they would all be together like this again. "Bozer, those are called corn cakes. They are not gross, and Jack can fix them too, although not as well as his mom can."

"And besides," Riley added, "We all tried that pickled fish thing you made, even though it landed Mac in the ER!"

Mac groaned, his stomach turning at just the thought of that miserable night. Food poisoning was always bad. Food poisoning from bad pickled herring had to be one of the circles of Hell. "She's got you there. You are not getting out of trying this!"

Bozer shot him a pathetic look, trying to get at least one of them to side with him. "But Mac…! I said I was sorry! And I did the dishes for a month!"

"You use most of the dishes!"

Bozer pouted. "Fine, fine… If you must put my cultured palate through such abuse, it shall be, but you will all have my death on your conscience!"

Riley closed the laptop, too involved with the discussion to split her attention anymore. "As opposed the fish stuff?"

"Look," he said, putting his hands up. "We are all entitled to one little mistake. I've cooked at least for Mac for years, with only one little incident…!"

Mac looked at him incredulously. "One little incident?! I'm terrified to eat anything that swims now!"

"Well," Jack pointed out, "Seafood is the most common way to get food poisoning… Oh, man, that sounded just like Mac! Help, I'm contaminated!"

The playful banter continued for another twenty minutes until Jack declared it done. He eased back into his chair and Mac and Riley brought everything to the table. Bozer whined and carried on, but he did try Jack's southern skillet corn. He loved it so much that when everyone had taken seconds, he emptied the bowl. There had never been any doubt that he would.

Finishing first, Mac sat back in his chair, watching his friends. Despite the aches and pains in his body and the scars they had all acquired over the last week, they were all here. Together. Safe. And that was everything.

In the morning, the team would be split up, Mac and Jack going undercover to find a terrorist on the run in the Chech Republic and Riley and Bozer doing tech support on a joint CIA op. A night like this might not happen again for a while. If things did not go well, it may never happen again. That made this, the regular human family silliness, just enjoying being together and safe for a night, so much more important.

They all (except Bozer, who kinda just got thrown in) had known what they were getting into. They had known they were signing on for hard work, long hours, separation from family and friends. They had been ready to do their part, sacrifice and suffer for what they knew was right, and they had signed on to never know what day would be their last. Most people's brains couldn't even process their own mortality. But knowing all that could give their psyches as much of a beating as their bodies often took. The kind of evenings most families took for granted as 'just life', were few, precious, and necessary to their survival as water and air. And tomorrow, while they did what they were best at, they would shove the knowledge that could drive one insane away with memories of nights like this one. Then, they would pray for many more to come.


End file.
